


Stay Cool, It’s Just a Kiss

by wildandbeautiful



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildandbeautiful/pseuds/wildandbeautiful
Summary: ten finished kisses





	1. Then He Kissed Me

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (belated) Valentine's Day! I wasn't disciplined enough to get them up on the day. 
> 
> These are in no particular order and not even necessarily on the same timeline.

**Then He Kissed Me**

_ He kissed me in a way that I've never been kissed before _

It's still 10 minutes to midnight but Illya already wants to leave, has wanted to leave for well over an hour. Every time he spots Gaby through the party his mind is immediately back home, back in their apartment, in their bed. She shines brighter than any of the tinsel strung throughout the hotel ballroom. She's in a sequined dress with a hemline airing on the side of scandalous, her hair coiffed to perfection and eyes rimmed in sparkly kohl. Her cheeks glimmer every time the low light hits them as she laughs, which happens more and more with every flute of champagne. 

He's watching her so intently that he doesn't notice Napoleon slide into his personal space.

“Ready for the New Year, Peril?”

Illya nods once. “Is always nice to make it to another year.”

“Leave it to you to make even optimism sound macabre.”

Illya ignores that.

“But Gaby looks rather enthused tonight.”

Illya's nod is curt, professional.

“I suppose you'll be breaking your PDA affliction for a midnight kiss,” Napoleon needles but Illya keeps the sudden swell of panic in his chest to himself. “Be a shame to leave a woman like that unkissed on New Year's. If you're not up to it I'm sure someone else in the room will be more than happy to oblige.”

With that last parting shot, Napoleon slinks back off.

Illya is certainly not going to turn his relationship into a public spectacle. He and Gaby are somewhat of an open secret, but the spy in Illya would never allow him to flaunt his affection so openly. No, he would not be kissing her at midnight.

At least not here.

His hand on her lower back is all that it takes for him to discreetly steer her out of the ballroom. Everyone is too distracted by the imminent countdown to notice them.

“And where, exactly, are we going?” she asks grabbing his arm with both of hands.

He says nothing but instead pulls her into a dark room littered with banquets and chairs and other hotel storage.

Illya swings Gaby around in front of him, holding onto the curves of her waist.

“I wanted to give you midnight kiss,” he says with a smile. He dips to press his lips to hers and she reciprocates for a moment before pushing him away.

“Here?” she asks, incredulous.

“Well, I could not give you proper kiss in front of people.”

She smiles ruefully. “That wasn't so scandalous.”

He furrows his brow. He's playing a game.

“That was not proper kiss.”

Her neat eyebrows arch and he backs her up to one of the banquet tables. Once she's on top he kisses her again, deeply, opening her mouth to him.

She moans into him as his hands slide under her dress. Illya massages her inner thighs with his thumbs and she breaks away with an annoyed huff.

“What are you doing down there?” she teases.

“Getting lost,” he smiles and smothers her laugh with his kiss. His fingers touch her then, where the silk of her panties is already wet. He pulls on the fabric, sliding it down her opening legs until she's bare and and exposed to him.

Kneeling at her feet he kisses her ankle, her calf, the curve of her knee. He works his way up until his lips kiss her where she's most needy.

As the crowd in the ballroom feted the New Year with cheers and drink, Illya kissed his woman into oblivion.

 


	2. Like Real People Do

**Like Real People Do**

_Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips / We should just kiss like real people do_

This time around, she is his wife, not fiancee. They must appear to be in love and crazy about each other in public, though behind closed doors they were still dodging each other, pushing down memories of near kisses.

“Dance with me, my love,” says Ivan Verenich, his cover this time around.

“Of course, darling.”

And just like that, she’s led out onto the dancefloor (with a prime view of their marks) for the first time by him. He’s never danced with her. And, she muses, _Illya_ still hasn’t. Because her current dance partner is not technically Illya.

He is a good dancer, she is pleased, and annoyed, to find.

“Do you see them?” he asks right by her ear.

“Mmhm,” she hums.

“And?” he says tightly.

“Nothing he is not—” she stalls when one of the marks looks right at them—at her. Right as she is talking about them. She thinks quickly, throws his focus.

Her lips are on Illya’s (nee Ivan’s) before he has a chance to react. She kisses him as though she is in love with him. After three beats, she looks back to their mark, still watching them, and smiles. He smiles back, rather flirtatiously, taking the bait.

Gaby sighs in relief as the song ends and Illya leads her off the dancefloor.

“I think we can approach them now,” she whispers. Illya nods, but says nothing. He looks more like himself than his cover; that is to say: tense.

“Are you okay?” she says lowly.

“Yes,” he says. “Let’s go talk to them.”

As she trails him, she realizes with a start: That was their first kiss.

^^^

That night in their hotel room, Gaby debriefs Waverly over the phone as Illya plays against himself in chess.

After she hangs up, she goes to sit next to him. He doesn’t look at her.

“We’re to meet them tomorrow at noon at the marina,” she says.

“Mhm,” he nods.

She watches him for a moment, more annoyed than she has any right to be that he won’t put his eyes on her.

“Are you okay?” she asks shortly.

“Yes.”

“Because you won’t look at me.”

He squares his jaw and rolls his eyes over to her. He doesn’t look at her like he normally does when they’re in private. He looks annoyed.

“Fine,” she spits standing up and leaving him there to play with himself.

 _Brat_.

He says it under his breath but she still hears. He is caught off guard when a Chanel flat hits him in the back of his head. He makes an annoyed huff and barely dodges the second flat as he turns to face her.

“Stop that,” he stands and catches a Prada espadrille before it hits him.

“No!” she shouts, lobbing a Louboutin with impressive force at his head. He stops it easily, advancing on her.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” he says grabbing her wrist before she can reload from the shoe rack.

“What’s wrong with _you_?”

“I am not the one throwing footwear.”

“Well I’m not the one acting like a sullen child all because of a stupid kiss,” she spits back, out of breath for her efforts.

It’s at that moment that he seems to realize how close he is to her, and that he’s still touching her. He drops her wrist like it’s on fire, but doesn’t move. Some of the anger recedes from her eyes as he looks at her.

“Was it really that bad?” she asks quietly.

He sighs heavily through his nose. “That is not….Is not how it was supposed to be.”

“Oh?” she chokes out, raising an eyebrow. She’s suddenly very nervous. “How was it supposed to be?”

“Was supposed to be real,” he whispers. “We were supposed to be our real selves.”

“Okay,” she sighs. “Well, I am really Gaby right now.”

“Yes.”

In the end she meets him halfway, rising on her toes to find his lips. He is tentative at first, but then his hand finds her cheek, while she clutches his shirt for support. She tilts her face for a better angle and kisses him again and again. He makes a sound like a broken sob in the back of his throat and she pulls away only to kiss his nose, his jaw, his closed eye.

“How was that?” she breathes.

“...Good,” he manages.

She laughs and presses closer.


	3. Kiss the Girl

**Kiss the Girl**

_My, oh, my/ Looks like the boy too shy, ain’t gonna kiss the girl_

Watching Illya and Gaby is _exhausting_. Napoleon feels tired just from observing their back-and-forth from his perch on the couch _—_ the constant verbal sparring to hide the longing looks and barely missed brushes of their lips. He can’t imagine how tired they must feel. Not to mention how blue Peril’s balls must be by now. Yet, _—_ to Napoleon’s utter exasperation _—_ he does nothing.

He sidles up to her, leans over her in a way that would be imposing if it were directed at anyone else, anyone who wasn’t Gaby, looks at her upturned face and parted lips with keen interest and then _—_ nothing. Nada. He blushes and walks away.

Exhausting.

So, Napoleon decides to play it on his time, not theirs, because their time is turning his hair gray. And because Napoleon has never shied away from rigging the odds in his favor. A world where Illya Kuryakin and Gabriella Teller are fucking a stone’s throw away from his own bedroom is definitely his favor. He lights the tapers in their New York safehouse _—_ a tiny apartment in Brooklyn this time _—_ blames it on a power outage (he knows a New York City building’s electrical box like the back of his hand); puts on a scratchy Dusty Springfield; and then excuses himself to the store for ice.

On his way out he grabs Illya by the shoulder, reels him in, says in his friendliest voice, “A woman doesn’t look at a man like that if she doesn't badly want to be kissed.”

Illya bristles but Napoleon soothes him with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

The air in the apartment is cozy, but not uncomfortable, while the air from his spot crouched on the fire escape is a breezy 65 degrees. He watches through the dirty window as Illya fumbles, and for a moment he thinks that all of his effort is for naught.

But then, by the grace of God, Illya makes his move. He comes up to Gaby, puts his hands on her shoulders, says something with a smile that has her smiling back, and then _—_

_Bam!_

Lays a kiss on her like he’s Humphrey Bogart himself. Napoleon silently cheers, letting out the longest sigh of relief in his life. They are kissing and _—_ oh, man, they are _really_ going for it. All of that pent up tension releases in a wave of open mouths and grasping hands. Napoleon is quite pleased with himself for rigging himself a front row seat to the show. He’s leaning forward, reading to throw all shame to the wind and _—_ Illya’s hand slides to the hem of Gaby’s skirt and Napoleon falls off the fire escape, but not before hitting the window on his way down.

As he lies on the ground waiting for them to come find them (he’s broken his leg, he ascertains), he is nothing but proud of his cupid abilities, all the same.


	4. Kiss Me Through the Phone

**Kiss Me Through the Phone**

_I just wanna kiss you / But I can't right now so baby kiss me through the phone_

She’s toying with him, he thinks. Teasing him. That is the number one thing she’s good at, after all. She’s not really touching herself.

Of course he had bugged her apartment. They both knew he would the minute they found out that they wouldn’t be allowed to communicate for over a week as part of their covers. They would all live alone for the course of the mission, but of course he couldn’t actually leave her _alone_ alone. That would be dangerous. So he bugged her temporary apartment before she’d even stepped foot in it.

All week at night he’s been listening to her move about, drinking, dancing, showering, eating, drinking, reading, drinking. Practicing her role as a mousy secretary newly implanted in the city.

But tonight, for some reason unbeknownst to him, she’s decided to turn on him. It started around five minutes ago, from the mic in the bedroom. She’d shuffled under the covers and he’d thought she was going to sleep. He was ready to allow himself the pleasure of listening to her breathing even out, imagining himself in the room with her.

But her breathing hadn’t slowed down. Instead it became more labored and when he heard the hitch in her throat he was on edge, his brain coding it as danger. Then she’d moaned.

He’d rolled his eyes.

Now, she was still continuing with the charade, making all of the appropriate noises, getting him wound up for nothing. Though his mind is convinced that it’s a game, his body does not respond in kind. His body can’t help but remember what it feel like to be on top of her as she makes those sounds in earnest.

Her breaths are short and her voice sounds so small and sweet.

“Mmm, yes…” she breathes. Okay, this is ridiculous. She’s really taken it too far. Because she is joking. Isn’t she?

“ _Ah—baby—yes_.”

He swallows thickly and slides down in his chair in shame, suddenly feeling like a pervert. His skin is hot and he’s hard in his trousers, so he can’t just turn it off. Not yet.

Now she’s mewling, breath coming fast as she rides out the wave of pleasure.

“Yes—just like that—right there—baby—ah—Illya—”

He thinks he might snap the arms off the chair by how hard he’s gripping them.

She comes with a strangled cry and Illya is mortified to find that the front of his pants is wet with pre-cum.

She sighs, happy, as she comes down. She’s quiet for a long, long time and he thinks she’s finally fallen asleep when, ever so quietly, comes:

“Goodnight, Illya. The week is almost over.” Then the sound of her lips making a kiss right next to the microphone.

He pulls down his pants and in his mind he is kissing her in that dark room as he takes himself in his hand.

 


	5. It’s In His Kiss

**It’s In His Kiss**

_If you wanna know, if he loves you so, / It’s in his kiss_

A year into their ragtag partnership, the agents of UNCLE find themselves in Dublin. That is to say that they find themselves in a Dublin bar. The mission is to infiltrate a local IRA faction. But, tonight, the mission is on hold.

Napoleon gracelessly swings Gaby around the makeshift dance floor to a Celtic number. Illya watches them from his barstool. When they've tired themselves out, they teeter back to him. Napoleon orders another round of Guinness.

“No dancing for you, Peril?”

“Illya can't dance,” Gaby says.

He snorts but says nothing.

“Well then, good thing you're good enough for the both of you,” Napoleon quips.

A thought occurs to Gaby. “Should I do some ballet?” she slurs.

“ _No_ ,” Napoleon and Illya say at the same moment.

She pouts half heartedly, but then pulls herself up and drinks deeply from her newly refilled glass. Eventually, she challenges Illya to an arm wrestling match, as she often does. He lets her win, as he often does.

She laughs and banters with Napoleon on the walk back to their hotel. Illya is quiet as she hangs off his arm. Once they reach their block, they part in a vain attempt at professionalism, but when Illya comes off the elevator he sees Gaby approach from the other end of the hall with her heels in her hand. They only give each other cordial looks as they stop in front of their respective doors right across from each other.

“Would you like a drink?” Gaby whispers to her door. Illya’s hand stalls where it’s unlocking his door.

“No,” he says half-heartedly, then, “But I’ll be right here if—”

“If?” Gaby asks hopefully.

“If anything happens.”

She snorts, unsatisfied. “What would happen?”

Then she goes inside and shuts her door while Illya stands in the hallway resisting the urge to press his face into the carpet where her bare feet stood.

^^^

He does find himself in her room the next night, after a long day of spywork. He sees her through the open verandah doors and he sets the intel he’d just finished typing up on the table, forgetting it completely as he joins her.

She continues to stare out into the darkness, chin on her arms as they rest on railing. They stand in comfortable silence for awhile and he allows himself the luxury of her company.

“I bring you the reports from today. You’ll need to read them before…”

He stops when she turns to look at him, her shrewd eyes assessing him from head to toe. She seems to think a long time before she asks: “Do you love me?”

He doesn’t answer but just looks at her trying to figure out her game. She doesn’t look like she’s trying to trick him though. She looks painfully wistful and open, eyes wide as she slides into his space, face tilted up in expectation.

Does he love her?

This angry little East German brat? Headstrong. Reckless. She doesn’t listen to him, or anyone, ever. He thinks of all the mission’s she’s almost compromised. Of all the fights she’s pushed him into. She’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She’d betray him in a minute, if it meant saving herself. She has no respect, no loyalty to speak of. She defected from her country, his government. She has nothing but disdain for the career he’s given his blood and sweat to.

Does he lover her?

Of _course_ he loves her. How could a monster like him not love a human like her? For a year he has not kissed her, barely even touched her. He has forced himself to be content with simply being near her, burning away every night as he lies alone in his bed with her mere feet away.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat as he stands there, his carefully trained face blank. A wall of anger and detachment descends over the naked honesty in her eyes. She turns and leaves him there.

Unwatched he can finally take a breath, clenching and unclenching his fist in frustration at himself.

When he reenters the suite she is looking at the papers he’d left.

“These look good,” she says, voice completely professional now. “Thank you. I’ll let you know if I need anything else before tomorrow.”

That is his cue to leave. Any other night he would take it, grateful for the chance to escape. But tonight instead he goes to the record player. He drops the needle on the last album she had been playing and is pleased when something slow and romantic begins to play.

She turns to look at him again. This time she is the one who is confused, trying to figure him out. He goes to her and takes her hand, tries to pull her to him, but she resists.

“What are you doing?” she asks, unsure of herself now. He is pleased that for once he is able to disarm her.

“You asked me a question. And I am giving you an answer.”

He pulls her hand again, this time leading her into a slow dance. It is the first time they’ve danced. The first time he’s danced as himself, not undercover, since his childhood. He holds her body close to his, feels her breath on his neck, smells the floral of her perfume, and he allows himself that one forbidden thing: hope.

When the song ends and switches over to a new one they continue to dance. She lets out a heavy sigh and pulls back enough to tilt her head up to him again. This time he relents—finally, blissfully—and brings his mouth to hers.


	6. Just a Kiss

**Just a Kiss**

_ Caught up in this moment / Caught up in your smile _

They are in the office, but Illya is anything but professional. His eyes can’t stay off of Gaby for long. She’s rearranging files and every time she reaches to a high shelf her already short skirt rides up even more. If there were other men around he would balk, but it is just the three of them in this part of the office and Napoleon wouldn’t dare.

He’s just caught sight of the scalloped edges of her lacy underwear when on a whim Gaby turns around catches him looking. He knows that every thought he’s just had is written all over his face. She smirks so hard dimples form in both of her cheeks. That does nothing to stop the reddening of his face (or the tightening of his pants).

She clucks her tongue and smiled as she turns away again.

“I’m going for a coffee run,” she announces loudly to the room, eyeing Illa meaningfully.

Napoleon lifts his head from his paperwork. “Will you get me—”

“ _ No _ ,” she says on the way out.

Illya waits a full two minutes (he’s a master of self control) before following her out without a word to Napoleon. Let him think what he will.

He finds her in the artillery closet.

“You could be less obvious,” she teases as she reaches for him. “You are a spy after all.”

“Not around you. And I cannot help if you always look as though you need kiss,” he says, sealing his mouth over her hers.

He kisses her so deeply she moans, hands quick at his belt. He turns her around, thumbing along that same hemline that is his undoing. He crouches to pull down her panties with his teeth. He knows she’s aroused when he feels how wet the lace is before he pockets it. He turns her face so that he can kiss her again—hungry, deep, loving—as he positions himself.

She breaks the kiss to gasp as he enters her. He fucks her slowly against the shelf, making her come twice before he allows himself to get lost in her. By the end, she almost sounds as if she’s in pain, except for her broken encouragements.

He kisses the back of her neck where sweat has gathered in the hair there. They disentangle themselves and her legs wobble as she moves to leave.

“Wait,” he laughs, grabbing her and pulling her to his chest to support her weight. “Maybe you should take a moment. You are shaking.”

“No need to gloat,” she says, kissing the underside of his chin. “I’ll be fine.”

He waits a few minutes before following her in. Not that it matters. Napoleon’s grin could light Times Square as he takes them in. Illya shoots him a death glare, daring him to say anything as he sits back down next to him at their desks.

Gaby attempts to gather some papers in a pile when her shaking hand accidently knocks over the pencil cup on her desk, spilling her coffee cup from that morning in the process.

“Oops,” she laughs nervously, cleaning it up.

“What did you do to her, Peril?” Napoleon whispers.

Now it is Illya’s turn to smirk. “I do not kiss and tell, Cowboy.”


	7. Kiss Me

**Kiss Me**

_ Kiss me / Beneath the milky twilight _

Gaby is nothing if not adaptable. Born fairly well off, she was orphaned and living behind the Iron Curtain before she’d had her first kiss. She was a ballerina, then a car mechanic, then a spy for MI6. When an American CIA agent in an expensive suit walked into her garage and wanted to pull her from the only home she’d ever known, she went. When she had to get close to a KGB agent for a mission, she did.

Then she started working with both of them. Then they became her family. Then she fell in love with one of them.

All of these things that she could have never even dreamed up, things she wouldn’t have even wanted, happened. And she just went with it, every time. Adaptable.

Now, as she finds herself in a wedding dress of all things, the lace veil casting her vision milky, she can’t help but think that this is another thing she’d never wanted until now. Now she wouldn’t be able to breathe if it didn’t happen, she thinks.

As she’s standing at the altar, she thinks of their life together—up til now, what’s to come. He is, without a doubt, the only thing in her life that’s ever made her feel safe. The irony is not lost on her. But, hey, she’s adaptable.

She believes that the universe itself has conspired to get her here. All of the other good for nothing men in her life had to abandon and mistreat her so that she could fight her way to him.  _ Him _ . She would paint his face in the stars if she could. His very name flickers and sparks deep inside of her.

Illya looks devastating in his tux. He looks at her with eyes that make her want to crumble like sugar in hot coffee. And she is not the type of woman to crumble.

He promises to stay with her forever and she feels fear, joy and a hot stab of protectiveness.

He is her fate. Her home. The cosmos within which she orbits.

When they kiss—a kiss born of every almost, unfinished, finished, first and last, kiss they've ever had—sealing their fates to each other, she thinks,  _ Yes, I will keep him forever. _


	8. This Kiss

**This Kiss**

_ It’s the way you love me / It’s a feeling like this _

Illya’s mouth is a half second away from pressing into Gaby’s when they are interrupted by a high-pitched cry. Gaby falls back onto the balls of her feet and laughs, sighing.

“At least it’s not Napoleon this time,” she jokes as she leaves the room.

“Or gunshots,” he says, sighing out his frustration. When she returns, she is holding the squirming, bundled source of the sound. When Gaby turns her around, Illya’s daughter looks back at him with his blue eyes.

“I just didn’t want to take a nap anymore, Papa,” Gaby coos into her ear, passing the baby off to Illya.

"You have good timing, little one,” he says, kissing the few blonde curls on her head.

“She’s trying to keep you on your toes,” Gaby says. She comes to sit on his other knee and he wraps his arms around both his girls.

“Then she does take after mama.” He kisses his wife then, kisses her over and over until their daughter is squealing for attention.


	9. A Kiss with A Fist

**A Kiss With A Fist**

_ A kiss with a fist is better than none _

A cracked rib, dislocated shoulder, bloody knuckles and a face beaten to hell. Illya assesses his wounds from his hospital bed and concludes that it is really not all that bad. He’s dealt with worse. And, besides, they are all completely worth it.

He knew that the mission required for Gaby to be captured. He knew that she was more than prepared for it. What he wasn’t prepared for was his reaction to watching her disappear into that car. The sudden snap of rage he’d felt watching those men grab and pull at her.

When they had finally caught back up with her, he hadn’t held back.

And now here he is. But he can watch Gaby, not a hair out of place, speaking with Waverly right outside his room, and it’s all worth it.

When she comes in she looks annoyed and he steels himself for the inevitable fight—the one they’ve had, oh, about 30 times.

“Well, I hope you feel good about yourself,” she says shortly.

“I do.”

She balks. “That show you put on was completely unnecessary.”

“You did not hear what those men said they wanted to do to you,” he defends himself.

“That is not your concern,” she volleys back.

“It is,” he argues. “You are my partner. It is my job to protect you.”

“To the point of ending up in the hospital? Every time a man so much as puts his hands on me?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He is unmoveable on this point.

The guttural sound that comes out of her is pure frustration, but she’s moving towards him, coming to sit by his side, pressed against his thigh. She gingerly lays her hands on his chest.

“You are utterly impossible,” she says, softer now. “And it’s not fair to have this fight when you look so pitiful.”

“Those men look worse,” he defends.

She snorts. “Yes, I know. But, you know I can take care of myself. I know I’m not a KGB superspy, but I can hold my own.”

“I know,” he says, taking her hand. And he does. He helped train her in hand-to-hand; of course she’s good. “But why should you have to when you have me?”

She laughs. “Why is it so hard to stay mad at you?”

“Maybe if it did not happen so much.”

She rolls her eyes. “My hero.”

When her lips meet his split ones he recoils at the sting.

“Oh, sorry,” she whispers against his mouth.

His smile is bloody, but he brings her head back to his for another biting kiss. It’s worth it. 


	10. Talk Too Much

**Talk Too Much**

_ Honey, come put your lips on mine / And shut me up _

Gaby only wants one thing for Valentine's Day and that's a kiss from Illya Kuryakin.

It's shouldn't be this hard, she thinks. He's clearly willing but somehow unable. She's never really had to work for a man--let alone a giant KGB agent. If he could just make up his mind to do it and get it done she's certain it will be perfect. But, instead, he talks their way out of it. Every. Fucking. Time.

Illya scoffs at the idea of Valentine's Day when Napoleon explains it to them, but Gaby notices the way his eyes linger on the extravagant bouquet of flowers she sends herself “from John in Auto.”

“Got a hot date for the big day, Gabs?” Napoleon asks.

“I mean he asked, so I figure I might as well....” she muses like she's above it all.

“Good for you. I, myself, have two lovely ladies joining me tonight”—a gag from Gaby— “What about you, Peril? Any plans?”

Illya hesitates for a moment, looks annoyed. “No.”

And that's that.

Later that night, after Napoleon has left and Gaby is packing up, she plays her hand.

“You know I might just cancel,” again, casual. “I don't want him getting the wrong idea.”

Illya nods calmly but Mr. Superspy’s poker face is awful.

“That is probably good idea.”

“Why don't you join me for a drink instead? Since I'm suddenly alone on Valentine's Day. You're better company than nothing.”

Illya scoffs but seems to consider it.

“Fine,” he says rising from his desk. “You shouldn't go to bar alone. Is liability for agency.”

She pretends like she's insulted but secretly she's thrilled as he follows her out the door and into the night.

^^^

They bar’s low amber light casts Illya in a golden glow and Gaby hopes that she looks half as romantic. Not that it matters.

She sips her specialty cocktail out of a cordial glass and plays with the patterns on the pink marbled bartop as Illya scan the room, looking anywhere but at her.

“Did you hear the ballet is doing Sleeping Beauty next month?” she attempts at conversation.

He nods, giving her a fleeting glance.

“I'd like to go,” she says and when he continues to play with the zipper on his jacket, adds, “But I suppose I can't go to the ballet by myself. That would be a bit sad.”

He nods again and she thinks she might snap his neck.

“Perhaps Napoleon will take me.”

“Perhaps.”

She huffs. She doesn't even want to kiss him at this point. Idiot. Giant idiot.

“Will you at least have a drink? You look more like my bodyguard than my date.”

His eyes snap to her.

“This is not date.”

“We're at a bar on Valentine's Day. It's a date. Whether you like it or not, so you could at least talk to me.”

“Is not date.”

“Is  _ too _ .” She grits her teeth.

“Is not,” he spits back. “If I took you on date, would not be like this.”

“Then why don't you?” she argues.

“Maybe I will,” he threatens. “Not if you act like this.”

“Like what? Like we're on a date?!”

“When I take you on date you will know,” he says with a wave of his hand.

“... _When_?” she needles.

His demeanor softens a bit.

“It would...not be professional. And there are better men to take you on date. I mean, you are too good for them all, but...better than me.”

“I don't think so.”

She's turned completely towards him now and leans into his personal space.

“You are smarter than that,” he breathes but looks unconvinced. He's looking at her now. At nothing but her and she thinks that she could spontaneously combust from it.

“Guess not,” she sighs. “And you, Illya? How dumb are you?”

He swallows thickly and hesitates as he watches her lips part.

“Dumb enough, I suppose.”

“To do what?”

He drops his eyes to his lap, takes a breath like he's going to say something profound. “Well, I—I am not exactly good at—”

Gaby pitches forward, grabs him by the collar.

“ _ Illya _ ,” she breathes against him.

“Yes?” he looks startled.

“Shut up.”

He smiles gently. “Make me, little Chop Shop Girl.”

And she brings her lips to—

“Can I get you another?” the bartender asks from being the bar.

Illya groans.

Gaby keeps hold on his collar as she pushes the bartender away by the chest.

“The check. Thanks. Make it quick.”

She turns back to Illya who clears his throat. “Perhaps we should—”

“No.” And with that she kisses him, swiftly, before anything else can happen.

He groans again, this time longingly into her open mouth.

They are still making out when the waiter sets the silver tray with her bill down in front of them, shakes his head and sighs, “I hate this holiday.”


End file.
